


Afterwards

by Twig



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twig/pseuds/Twig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for ghotocol_kink: Five times Ethan realised how Croatia had affected Brandt (loss of his then lover maybe, or he doesn't eat his favourite dish any more because that's what he had for breakfast on that day ....something like that) and the one time Ethan does something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterwards

Brandt-- _Will_ , ever the analyst, tells him that the truest test of a decision is whether you'd make it again with hindsight as your guide. It's exactly the kind of thing a guy who'd spent most of his time analysing intelligence would say. Ethan smiles though and says: the whole point of a split second decision is that you _don't_ have the information. Will looks away for a second then, eyes unfocused, and eventually murmurs, "But it's my job. To know." 

Ethan could've quipped, but his instincts tell him to refrain and his instincts haven't failed him yet. He pats Brandt on the shoulder instead and goes on his way. 

It's not until later, lying in bed, that he really thinks about it. 

Protecting Julia wasn't a split second decision. And even given what Ethan knows now, he'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. Julia's life outweighs all considerations, including Brandt's peace of mind. Ruthlessness is in Ethan's blood, whether he likes it or not, and he won't second guess his decision. 

But. 

* 

Ethan had pulled Brandt's jacket after India, but read only far enough to understand the furtive look in Brandt's eyes every time they set upon him. When IMF needed to be put back together, however, Ethan had to take a deeper look. 

He didn't suss anything that he hadn't already figured out: that Brandt had been an exemplary field agent, who then transitioned with remarkable ease into intelligence. His reviews were glowing. There was even a personal note from the Secretary himself commending Brandt on his astute observations and incisive analysis. 

Like every other field agent, Ethan has a healthy appreciation for the people who provide the intel, even if field agents do mock the "pencil pushers" every now and then. Without the right information, they could never act. And with the wrong information, they could all end up dead. 

Ethan may be the trigger, but people like Brandt provide the aim. 

That part of Brandt's file gave Ethan a deeper appreciation for the man's competence. He knew already that Brandt is scary smart, but it doesn't hurt to have 250 pages of evidence to back that assessment up. 

What got him, instead, is the earlier stuff. 

Top of his class, hand to hand combat. Top of his class, marksmanship. Top of his class, evasive maneuvers. The only thing Brandt seemed to have sucked at was subterfuge and diversionary tactics, and by suck, that only meant he was fifth in his class rather than first. 

Training, of course, sometimes means nothing once you're out in the field, but not for Brandt. It wasn't quite 250 pages of accomplishments and praise, but it was damn close. Ethan was pretty sure one of the performance reviews heavily insinuated that Brandt could be the second coming of Ethan Hunt, which Ethan wanted to be amused by, but he just couldn't bring himself to smile. 

A field career, Ethan tells himself, is incomparable to an intelligence career. There is simply no way to say one is better than the other. Brandt always seems content to have his nose buried in an iPad, a hint of something almost like a smile on his lips whenever he cross-references a link or discovers a pattern in the chaos. But Ethan doesn't miss the certainty that's slowly but surely creeping back into Brandt's every move out in the field, and he understands with vicious clarity that he's the one who had taken that certainty away in the first place. 

* 

Smell is irrevocably tied to memory. There's a bottle of aftershave that Jules had gotten him for some occasion or another, early on in their courtship, that he used to wear every now and then. Ethan doesn't have it anymore; possessions are ephemeral in his line of work. But sometimes he buys it if he spots it. 

He can't have pictures of Julia, no mementos to hold her close by, and rare are the times when he can catch a glimpse of her. Store bought reminders are all he can get. It was painful the first few times he wore it though, a swell of longing that tightened his chest, made it hard to breathe. But eventually, the scent becomes a comfort, a reminder of the days when he was loved. 

It's a reminder of no such thing for Brandt. 

Personal space tends to become a thing of the past between teammates, and it's no big deal with Jane or Benji, but Brandt gets flustered every now and then when Ethan leans in a little too close. It's kind of cute actually. 

Except for that one time when Brandt froze and all the color left his face. Stricken, as though pieced through the heart by some terrible realization. 

Brandt didn't explain and didn't let Ethan ask. The whole incident was forgotten, and it was back to status quo, until the next time it happened. Ethan didn't let it go, cornered Brandt, and maybe it was cruel to push, but Ethan had to know. 

"Just... that." Brandt made a vague gesture, seemed to indicate the entirety of Ethan's person. 

"Tell me." Ethan used his gentlest voice. 

Brandt sighed and sagged his shoulders back against the wall. That look was in his eyes again, veiled and pained. 

"It's ridiculous." But Ethan remained unswayed, so Brandt finally said, "It's the way you smell." 

Brandt sounded so... defeated. Ethan had seen Brandt fight, an economy of motion, tight and controlled. Even when pressed, Brandt gave it his all. But Ethan can drain the fight right out of him, so quickly, so easily. It's one thing to have an Achilles' heel, but quite another to _be_ somebody else's. 

"The way I smell." 

Brandt's eyes fell shut. He took in a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to physically hurt him. "Croatia," he said. "In the safehouse. After Julia... was taken, before you got there. There were signs of a struggle in the bathroom, like... I don't know." Brandt opened his eyes and stared at Ethan. "It doesn't matter. I know it was staged." 

"Tell me." Ethan's tone brooked no refusal. 

"The curtain was torn, the mirror was smashed, and there was this... this little broken bottle on the floor. Cologne or something. The whole room reeked of it." 

Ethan held Brandt's stare. No further explanation was necessary. Ethan offered no platitudes nor would Brandt have accepted any. 

When Ethan got home that night, he didn't throw the bottle away. But he never really touched it again after that. 

* 

By the time Ethan turned out the lights in the bathroom, everyone was asleep. Jane crashed on the double in the bedroom. Benji snorted softly in his cot. Brandt was stretched out on the sofa, face lit by the dull blue glow of his laptop perched on the coffee table. 

Ethan was too wired to sleep yet. Maybe in an hour, but not now. He made his rounds: draped a blanket over Jane, slipped off Benji's shoes. Brandt, for crying out loud, still had his tie on. That was going to take a deft touch. 

Before Ethan could even lay hands on him, Brandt stiffened in his sleep. He was dreaming, and it was an unpleasant one from the looks of it. 

"Sorry." 

Brandt exhaled the word so softly that Ethan nearly missed it, but once the syllables fell into place, there was no mistaking it. 

There was also no mistaking the next murmured word. 

"Ethan." 

Brandt curled into himself, made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. Ethan slumped to his knees next to the sofa and found himself at a loss. 

After what seemed like hours, Ethan finally laid a hand on Brandt's shoulder. 

The touch didn't wake Brandt. Didn't do much of anything at all. 

*

On average, it takes about 4.3 seconds before a silence becomes awkward. 

This, Ethan determined, had officially become an awkward silence. 

Finally, Brandt said something. 

"Uh, Ethan, this is Tabitha. Tabitha, Ethan Hunt." 

Ethan thrust out his hand for a shake. Tabitha offered him a polite smile. 

Crickets could chirp. 

"You're back in the field," Tabitha said after another hefty dose of uncomfortable silence. 

"Half, half. It's... a little weird right now." 

"Well, I hope you're doing well." 

"You, too, Tabs. Tabitha." 

The smile on Tabitha's lips grew strained. She held no malice toward Brandt, that much was clear to Ethan, but the awkwardness was thick enough to slice. Without another word, they parted ways from Tabitha, and within two seconds, Brandt picked up the conversation he'd been having with Ethan before they unceremoniously bumped into Tabitha. 

Tabitha. Tabitha. Tabitha. 

Ethan didn't lose a beat of his conversation with Brandt, but that name seemed so familiar. Then, it clicked. 

Brandt's file was 99% professional details, but there was that one page with his personal information. Date of birth, place of birth, next of kin, parents' names, etc. William J. Brandt had been, at one point in his life, engaged to one Tabitha M. Miller, IMF technician 1st class. 

Brandt had been the one to break it off, three months after Croatia. 

Benji, whose grasp of the concept of "tact" is tenuous at times, fumbled through a condolence after hearing about it from the IMF geek squad gossip circle. 

"It never would've worked out anyway," Brandt answered with a forced laugh. "She's got three cats and they all hate me." 

Jane eyed Ethan, but Brandt didn't look at him at all. 

*

Ethan paused at the door. He's not an eavesdropper by nature, but he stopped. 

"You should tell him." That was Jane. 

"I can't." And that was Brandt. 

"You told him the truth about his wife, didn't you?" 

"Because it was the right thing to do." 

"And this isn't?"

"This is so far from right, it's sideways."

"That doesn't even make any sense." 

Small clicks: the tink of a coil spring into the slide, the cock of a hammer. Brandt and Jane were cleaning their guns. Normal people converse over a cup of coffee; IMF agents bond over gun oil. 

"He told me what really happened. Benji, too." 

"Is that supposed to make a difference?"

"It means that there's nothing for you to blame yourself for." 

The clack of a clip slammed into place followed by the rack of the slide chambering the first round. 

"And you shouldn't--" 

"Let it stop me? But it should." 

"Everything in this life tells us to stop, Will. Pain tells us to stop. Our heart racing tells us to stop. _Fear_ tells us to stop. But we soldier on, because that's what we do. That's what we have to do."

Then there was nothing but silence, until Brandt spoke again, only to change the subject. 

*

It's remembering Jane's voice, more than anything that was said, that finally gives Ethan clarity. 

She knows exactly what it feels like to be too late.

Then Ethan remembers Brandt's-- _Will's_ voice. 

_But it's my job. To know._

It's Ethan's job, too. To know. 

But more than that: to know, and to do something about it. 

*

Ethan Hunt is a lot of things. Calculating son of a bitch is one of them. 

He pats a drop of Julia's aftershave to his face at 8am, and by 9, he's leaning into Will's personal space. 

Without fail, Will blanches. The look in his eyes isn't sharp enough to be accusing, but something akin to hurt flashes in those blues. 

"I think we should talk," Ethan says as he takes the seat adjacent to Will's and pointedly pushes Will's console away. 

"Now really isn't the time or the place." 

"Now is the time. Here is the place." 

For a moment, Will looks like he might fight, but he concedes quickly, like he always does. 

"What do you want to talk about?

"Croatia." 

"There isn't really a whole lot to talk about." 

"I was wrong to have put you through all that, but I'd do it again." 

Will sits back in his seat, confusion in every line of his body. "Is this an apology? Because you don't need to say you're sorry. I would've done the same thing." 

"Not an apology." 

And like that, confusion vaporizes and Will's patience is snapped taut. He straightens in his seat, eyes flashing. "Then what?" Not quite a yell, but getting there. "What do you want from me, Ethan?" 

"I want you to stop blaming yourself. It's not your fault. Julia is alive." And Ethan would never speak those words out loud if he hadn't already secured this room, made sure there'd be no interruptions. 

"It's not about whether she's alive or dead." 

"Then tell me what it's about." 

Will shoves himself back from the table, getting up from his seat so quickly that he nearly knocks the chair over. He's putting distance between them, but Ethan won't have it. He follows, and it startles him to see Will lose his instincts. To back himself into a corner rather than search for an exit. Or maybe it's a good sign, that Will doesn't really want to walk away from him, to end this inquiry, no matter how difficult it is. 

A moment of deja vu washes over Ethan as he stands in front of Will, an echo of the first time they had this confrontation. 

"Tell me," Ethan says, voice as gentle as that first time, too. 

"I should've warned you," Will finally chokes the words out, gaze flickering at any place but Ethan. "So your wife is alive and it was all a part of a bigger plan, but I didn't know that. Do you get that? I didn't know that. And I should've done what's right." Now though, he looks straight at Ethan. "That's the truest test of a decision, Ethan. The truest test of a person. Not hindsight, not more information. It's what you'd do when you gotta choose between what's right and what you've been told. 'Just following orders' don't cut it with me, and I know damn well it doesn't cut it with you." 

"So what is it, Brandt? You want me to hate you, is that it?" 

"You damn well should," Will snarled. "What's wrong with you that you even want me on your team? I had a choice, a call to make. You said it yourself: the whole point of a split second decision is that you don't have all the information. That's the kind of choice that matters...." 

Will is ranting. And it's not that Ethan can't appreciate what Will is saying, but he knows, too, that there is no arguing your way through a logic loop. Will is right; there _is_ nothing to talk about. Ethan didn't come here to talk anyway. 

Ethan grabs Will, hands on his face as sure as any headlock, and kisses him. It's more a collision of mouths than anything else, and it stops Will's words instantly. When Ethan draws back, Will looks so startled that Ethan wonders, for a fraction of a second, if he did the worst possible deed. But only a fraction of a second, because then Will _surges_ against him. 

This time, it's a _kiss_. 

Apparently for Will, kissing is a full contact sport. He's the one in the corner, but Ethan is the one with no exit, smothered by all of Will from mouth to knees. Will kisses a little too urgently, a little too desperately, like he's waited too long and now this craving, once sparked, cannot be satisfied so easily. It's okay; Ethan indulges. 

Then Will breaks away with a gasp. 

"This is... *all kinds* of messed up, you know that, right? We should not be kissing when we were just talking about how I got your wife killed." 

"Julia is fine, remember?" 

Will licks his lips, tries to compose himself. "You love her." 

Ethan can only answer honestly, "I do. And I always will."

"Then this is what exactly?" 

"I love Julia. She'll always have a place in my heart. But I can't make a life with her." 

Will's expression crumbles. Suddenly, Ethan can understand why Will was fifth in his class for subterfuge. 

"And I'm what? The consolation prize? Or you feel sorry for me?" 

Ethan sighs. " _Will_." 

"I'm just not making the logical leap here!" That same tone of voice as when Will questioned the flare under the water play. 

Ethan resists the temptation to touch Will's face again, settles instead for laying his hands on Will's shoulders. They stiffen momentarily, but Will doesn't pull away. 

"There is no logic. There's nothing to analyse. You can't make pie charts out of this. It just... is." 

Will looks so dubious that the expression just might stick forever, but he finally relaxes a little to a mild discontent. 

"That's just how it always is with you, isn't it, Ethan?" he grumbles. "You just make shit up as you go along." 

Ethan smiles. "Now you're getting me." 

Will sighs, bringing a hand up to swipe over his face. "Fuck. This is... a little much." 

Ethan risks it this time; he lets his hands slide up to cradle Will's face. Another moment of uncertainty flickers across Will's expression, then he softens, allows it, ever so faintly leans into it. Ethan doesn't think he's been this gentle even with Jules, which is not a slight against Will, but a statement of how much inadvertent power he has over him. 

"You're a good man, Will," Ethan says, stilling Will's flinch. "The truest test isn't what you'd do if you knew what's to come, because nobody ever knows what's to come. It's an impossible test. The real test is what you do afterwards." 

Will seems to want to protest this, but Ethan doesn't let him. 

"Close your eyes." Voice soft but firm. Will obeys. 

"Breathe. Picture Julia in your mind. Not the surveillance pictures, not that damn autopsy report, but the real her, in full color. It's winter. Her cheeks are red from the cold, but she's warming up by the fire. She says she has a present for me, no reason at all. Just felt like it when she was shopping with her girlfriends. It's that blue bottle. Not broken, but whole and full. Breathe, Will. This reminds me of her. How much I love her. How much she loves me. It's not the ending I would've chosen for us, but it's not the end of the world. She has a life that's all her own to live now and so do I and so do you. I want you to breathe, Will, and picture Julia smiling. Breathe and stop thinking, stop analysing. Just breathe, and feel this." 

A kiss not meant to silence this time, a kiss unhurried nor desperate. Crazy as it sounds, IMF training has classes on this. On kissing. This is anything but that. Not about finesse or seduction. Just sincerity and reassurance. Fondness. Affection. 

When the kiss comes to its natural end, Ethan draws back. Will's eyes are still closed. His breathing is slow, steady. There is a peace on his face that Ethan realizes he's never seen before. 

"So," Will says, once his eyes have opened, "where do we go from here?" 

Ethan smiles. "I don't know." 

A faint quirk twitches Will's lips. "And that's okay, right?"

"That's right." 

"It's what you do afterwards that counts," Will repeats Ethan's words, trying them on for size, and seems to find them the right fit. 

Ethan knows it isn't this easy. This isn't closure; there never really is. But if Will should forget again that he's a good man, Ethan will be there to remind him.


End file.
